“Oh, I say!” he protested. “You don’t call this being kind, do you? I assure you it’s just pure selfishness. I should have spent my evening alone if we hadn’t met––and I hate being alone; I bore myself stiff in five minutes. I’m just––honoured that you should have allowed me to eat my supper with you. If you knew how beastly fed-up I was feeling ... the world seemed a positively loathsome place.”

She laughed; she leaned her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, looking at him with thoughtful eyes.

“Are you poor?” she asked with disarming frankness.

“Poor as a church mouse,” said Micky promptly. “At least”––he hastened to amend his words––“I’m one of those unfortunate beggars who spend money as fast as they get it. I’ve never saved a halfpenny in my life.”

12

This at least was the truth.

She nodded.

“Neither have I––I’ve never had one to save....”

The despondency was back again in her voice; Micky broke in hastily––

“Before we go any further I think we ought to know one another’s names.” He fumbled in a pocket for a card, but changed his mind quickly, remembering that his cards bore the address of the expensive flat which he honoured with his presence. “My name is Mellowes,” he said. “I’ve got several Christian names as well, but people call me Micky....” He waited, looking at her expectantly. “Won’t you tell me yours?” he asked.

She was staring down at her plate. He could see the dark fringe of lashes against her cheeks. Suddenly she looked up.

“Why do you want to know my name? We shall never meet again, I–––”

Micky leaned a little forward.

“If we don’t,” he said quietly, “it will be the greatest disappointment I have ever had.”

She looked at him with a sort of fear.

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